Clove POV: At the Reaping
by All-lost-things
Summary: Basically this is the first part of a story from Clove's point of view at the Reaping of District Two and what happens after.


I know him. I know the way he moves, the smell of this hair, the sound of his breathing when he's asleep. I know every muscle of his body, I've felt them used against me in combat practice. I can just imagine the feeling of his arm, the tight muscles under his warm skin, as he throws it into the air and swaggers forward. The typical District 2 volunteer.

I watch him carefully through my squinted eyes as he makes his way onto the stage. Trying to detect any kind of chink in his armour, but I know I won't see one. I know him better than anyone else in the entire world, and still I can't tell what he's thinking half the time. If I wasn't so certain that he wouldn't dare try and hurt me, I wouldn't trust him as much as I do. But I do, of course. I trust him more than anyone, which is strange, because he's the second most cold-blooded and violent person I know. But the first is me, you see. So we understand each other.

I wonder if he'll win. As I watch him standing there, well over six foot and every inch of him taut and well muscled, as I recall the feeling of the muscles moving against my skin as we fought, I can't imagine anyone being able to beat him in combat. He's ruthless. Formidable. Unbeatable.

I watch as that stupid Capitol bitch dips her hand into the reaping bowl of girls names. There are usually far less female volunteers than male, and I doubt there'll be any this year, with Cato to contend with. Unlike some of the other Districts, we don't faff around and pretend that we're friends, or companions. We are allies in the arena, until all of the weak ones are gone, and as many as the stronger ones as possible. Then it's every man for themselves.

She picks up a slip delicately with her ridiculous fingernails. Opens it, shouts a name. I see Cato's reaction before it fully registers with me. His expression falters, and for some inexplicable reason I feel a stab of victory. And then I hear the name she called, at least 20 seconds after everyone else.

It's me.

For a moment, time is suspended and I stand with all the other 16 year olds in a kind of endless bubble, begging my brain to register and process all my thoughts so that I have time to compose my face before I have to walk onto the stage. I will not look weak. I will not look scared. I am the most violent and well-trained girl in District Two. I was made for this.

And then the bubble ends, and I have just enough time to tighten my facial muscles and relax my mouth so that I don't look completely pathetic. I refuse to meet Cato's eyes. I saw him falter in that split second when he knew what was happening and I didn't, but I'm sure he's composed himself. He's trained his whole life for this. He's not going to let me stand in his way. He needs to look completely ruthless for the sponsors, who are no doubt falling over themselves to sponsor him as we speak. Who wouldn't? Just wait until they've seen him throw a spear, or wield a sword. Wait til they see him dressed in a suit, with his broad shoulders and blue eyes. The Capitol will just die over him.

But what about me? Who will sponsor a small dark-haired girl who wasn't even a volunteer? Maybe once they've seen me throw knives. I can hit one of the tiny geckos that sometimes inhabit our garden from ten feet away, easy. I'm most definitely not out of the running. And if the sponsors don't see that now, just wait until I get into the arena. I'll make sure the other tributes see it, for sure.

And then the Capitol woman in her ridiculous outfit and her voice that makes me want to pick up the glass reaping bowl and smash it over her head instructs us to shake hands. I turn to face him, and his blonde hair stuck up no matter how many times he combs it and his bright blue eyes feel like a punch in the stomach. I reach out my hand and he takes it, gripping it tightly. I don't know what he means by this. Does he mean that it's on, that our years of friendship, that everything we've shared is nothing now, that it's me against him? Is it supposed to be a reassuring squeeze? I'm not sure. I still trust him, though.

We shake hands for way longer than is normal. And although I hate myself for it, though I spend my whole life trying not to be that kind of girl, I cannot help but think back to the one time we held hands, even tighter than this, for hours on end. I hate this weakness. I wish I was stronger. There was a girl a few years back, Johanna, who won the games by pretending to be weak and vulnerable, but then turned out to be a ruthless killer. Hypothetically, I could do that too. I'm small, pretty skinny, I don't look particularly threatening. If I just kept quiet during my interview, I could do it. But the thought of looking weak, even for a moment, even as part of a deception that could save my life, makes me feel physically sick. I guess that option's out.

And noone will believe I'm weak, will they, if I'm with Cato? That is, if I still will be with Cato. There's an unwritten law in District Two that our tributes are allies, at least to begin with. And though I hate myself for it, that thought comforts me instantly.

Then we are taken to the Justice Building, to say goodbye to our family and friends. The thought is almost laughable, Cato and me standing in separate rooms waiting to say goodbye to all the people we care about. Because of course, we don't care about anyone, him and I. Not my father, not any of my supposed school friends. His father will come and see him, he will be so proud of his boy. If only he knew how much Cato despises him.

Because no-one knows that, except me. No-one knows anything about either of us, except each other. My father will come and say goodbye too, although for different reasons. He will want to look to the outside world as though he cares about me. As though we are a normal family. Just the thought of it makes me almost laugh out loud.

If I hadn't been reaped, would I have gone to say goodbye to Cato? Would he have wanted me to? I let myself believe that he would, because more than anything I don't want to be the weaker of the pair of us. And I would have liked to have seen him. I'm the only person in the world he would have liked to say goodbye to, I'm sure of it.

Only it isn't goodbye, is it? Because I'll be right there alongside him, sharing a compartment in the Capitol, training, interviews, the arena. We are Cato and Clove again, like we were when we were younger, before we realised it was weak to care about people and buried that somewhere with our dead mothers. What connects us now is our understanding of each other. I know that he values me, admires my knife skills. I know that he probably does still care. I still care. But at the same time, I don't, because he's Cato and I'm Clove. And we don't care about anybody. Not even each other.

It's like when I pretend I don't notice that he gets flustered when we are instructed to do combat practice together. He pretends not to notice me blush whenever I see him getting changed. I pretend that I don't remember that night I went to the training centre to meet him and found him rocking back and forth on the floor. He pretends that he doesn't remember how I held his hand and stroked his hair for hours.

You see? We get each other. Our brains work in the same way. We are Cato and Clove. Violent and cold-blooded and cruel. Messed up. Sometimes I think we might be broken beyond repair. But the fact that it's me and Cato, not just me, does make that better.

Does that make me weak? I've always thought it did. I can't rely on anybody. I can't care about anybody. This reaping should have taught me that lesson once and for all: if just Cato had been reaped, I would be pretty sure that I would see him again, because the odds of winning are so highly in his favour. But now that it's both of us—

well, let's just say it's lucky that we don't care about each other.

My father walks into the room, and I catch a glimpse of the Peacekeepers outside my door, and I spot Cato's father walking into the room across from me. I wonder what Cato will say to him. This makes me smile slightly.

I turn to face my own father. A wave of hatred hits me as I see him, his scraped back hair, tall skinny body, ill fitting suit. So different from Cato in every way, with his endless muscle and messy blonde hair. My father does not understand me in the slightest. That's another thing that's different about them.

Our eyes meet and even though I'm prepared for it, even though I don't expect anything different, I'm still shocked at how empty and expressionless they are. His thin lips curve into a pitifully fake smile and he says in a flat voice: "Good luck, sweetheart. Do your District proud." I know he thinks I haven't got a chance in hell of winning. Even without the other Districts to contend with, there's still Cato. My father has never seen me train. He doesn't know that I can beat Cato at throwing knives and even spears, sometimes. He doesn't know that I'm the most skilled female in District 2 by far. He knows nothing about me. That'll be a nice surprise for him to see in the arena.

He lifts his bony hand and pats me on the shoulder. Then, clearly assuming his parental duty has been carried out, he nods curtly and turns to leave. The door bangs shut behind him. When I was younger, after my mother died, I used to think it was terrible to hate my father as much as I do. Because I do despise him, with every fibre of my being. It wasn't too long before I realised, though. That not caring is a strength, the highest power, the only way to be truly free of weakness. I guess my only weakness now is sat in a room separated only by a corridor, who may or may not already be plotting my death.

But I really hope he isn't.

Ugh, I hate this, sitting in a room with nothing to do, no knives to throw, for this long. It allows time for my thoughts to cloud over, enables me to really think and feel things clearly. I hate it so. Because my only thought right now is him, Cato, and however much I try and plan what to do in the arena, whether to team up with him, with the other Careers from 1 and 4, how to kill them, I just end up thinking about completely unhelpful and ridiculous thought. Like the first time he smiled at me. He had been so impressed with my throwing. And the first time we practised combat against one another, how close our faces got, how I was shocked at how smooth and warm his skin was.

I hate this so, so much, this space and time to think and feel. Because I don't feel, that's my thing, I feel nothing but hatred for my father and aggression towards pretty much every other member of the human race.

They lead us on to the train and we walk side by side, neither talking nor touching. I mean, why would we be touching, we never touch one another except when we're training, or very occasionally on those nights I hope he doesn't remember when we stole a lot of liquor from his father and fell asleep curled against one another. And then of course, that time when we held hands and I stroked his hair. But none of this has ever been acknowledged by either of us out loud. It exists solely in our memories, it has never been touched by the outside world.

And then finally, finally, they lead us into a compartment and sit us down and leave, and finally we are alone. But suddenly I don't want to be alone with him because I have just realised how I have no idea on earth what to say or how to act and I don't want to be weak, I will not be weak—

He is the first to speak. He looks at me, cocks his head to one side and asks: "Did your father come to see you?" with a trace of his old grin on his lips. I'm startled for a moment because he's acting so normal, like we always used to, so I don't answer for a minute.

"Yes. Did yours?". Cato smiles and leans back in his chair. "Course he did. He's not gunna miss the chance to remind his only son that fighting in the arena was the only thing I was born for, is he?". And now the smile on his face is slightly forced.


End file.
